


The Fifth Time

by Artemis1000



Category: Supernatural, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dark, Dark Fic Fest, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/pseuds/Artemis1000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Dean Winchester ran into Damon Salvatore. Monsters and monsters don't mix, except when they do.</p><p>Dean's about to go to hell, but Damon Salvatore will make it one hell of a ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Fifth Time

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story for a dark fest years ago, to the prompts  
>  _Any fandom, any pairing, Tonight, I don't feel sorry._  
>  Any Fandom, Any pairing, "I could touch you and you wouldn't even feel me. You don't even know the danger you're facing. If I'm quiet, I'll slide up behind you and if you hear me I'll enjoy trying to find you.", any kink  
> I got stuck midway through and went with a different story for dark fest, then abandoned it altogether when I remained stuck. Now, years later, I've decided to dig it out and finally finish it. Hopefully it's been worth the wait!
> 
> Playing loose with timelines here, let's all pretend Supernatural season 3 and TVD season 1 take place in the same year.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go out with a bang, not with a whisper.

“Yes.”

Damon started almost imperceptibly and swivelled his head fully around to meet Dean’s eyes, mouth opening for what was undoubtedly some infuriating smartass quip.

Dean didn’t give him the chance to voice it. “Yes,” he repeated firmly. Again, Damon opened his mouth and again, he cut him short. “The answer to the question you’ve been dying to ask since day one.” He smacked his glass onto the table, mindless of the whiskey sloshing over the rim, and stood up. “It’s yes.”

Damon remained glued to his seat, still frozen in the same lazy, cocky body language he had had before Dean caught him off guard. He gave a snort of laughter, emptied his glass of bourbon in one swig and pointed an accusing finger at Dean. “You are drunk!” 

Dean snorted. If Damon wanted to play hard-to-get, he could find himself another playmate. He threw a bill onto the table and walked towards the door without so much as another glance at Damon. 

The door banged shut behind Dean as he stepped onto the parking lot. His eyelids fluttered shut as he inhaled deeply. The night air was pleasantly cool and fresh after the smoky air in the bar, just cold enough to clear his not quite drunk, just a bit fuzzy head.

There was the faintest disruption of air to Dean’s left.

Dean’s eyes opened to calmly meet Damon’s pale blue gaze. He smiled his best butter-wouldn’t-melt-on-his-tongue smile. “Hello Damon. Fancy meeting you here.”

Damon snarled and in the very same moment already, Dean found himself grabbed with supernatural speed and thrown against the brick wall of the bar. Before he could so much as find his footing, Damon was already upon him, hands pinning his upper arms to the stone, lean body pressing into his so firmly he could feel the contour of every brick, Damon’s belt buckle pressing into his stomach, his hard cock nudging against Dean’s groin. 

“Why?”

Dad had once told him, when you’re meeting a predator’s eyes, don’t look away unless it’s part of your plan. Whoever looks away first submits. 

Dean didn’t look away. Not even when Damon’s eyes turned ugly, dark veins surrounding them like spider webs. At any other time, he would have recoiled in disgust when Damon showed himself as the monster he was. Not tonight. He ignored the revolted churning of his stomach, took the whispers of ‘what would Dad think of you?’ and ‘what would Sammy say?’ and crammed them into the same nasty back corner of his mind he had filled with so many what ifs ever since he made the deal. 

“Because I’ve got two weeks left to live and you’re on my to-do list.”


	2. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're young and playing with fire.

The first time Dean Winchester met Damon Salvatore, Sammy had just left for college and Dad was at the other end of the country chasing a werewolf.

Meanwhile, Dean was halfway to getting piss drunk in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Nebraska. If he got there all the way he might be able to forget the trusting look in little Annie’s eyes when he promised to get her out of there, right before that fucker had grabbed her and squashed her skull like a tomato.

He refilled his glass to the rim, idly wondering why he bothered with the glass at all, when a man slid onto the barstool to his left. He gave a little annoyed grunt and concentrated fully on lifting the glass to his lips without spilling any of the precious liquid promising oblivion.

The stranger grabbed Dean’s bottle, sniffed at it and recoiled. “I believe they used this to tan leather in my day.”

Dean looked up then, to shoot the stranger a glare of such strength that it could be used to tan leather, too. He barely stifled another groan as he got a good look at his new drinking buddy. Cocky smirk to go with the dark hair and blue eyes, not to mention the inability to recognize a man who wanted to be left the fuck alone. “Fuck off.”

“Don’t say that!” the man exclaimed with the wide hurt eyes of a wounded baby animal. “This could be the start of a beautiful friendship!”

Dean shot him a lazy glare. “Your face and my fist, that’s a beautiful friendship.”

He hummed thoughtfully as if Dean had just said something awfully interesting and ordered bourbon.

Blessed silence returned while the stranger sipped at his bourbon and Dean worked his way through two more glasses of cheap whiskey. 

“Name’s Damon,” the man said suddenly. “Damon Salvatore.”

Dean eyed the hand in front of his face as if it might bite him any moment. He considered ignoring Damon Salvatore, but Dean had the distinct feeling he would only take it as a challenge. He shook the hand reluctantly, idly noting the coldness of it. “Dean.” He paused; taken aback by himself that he had given his true name. Maybe he was just that far past caring tonight, but it was sloppy anyway. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough to fuck up this bad.

“So what’s a pretty boy like you doing here all alone, Dean?” he drawled.

Dean tensed and turned around on his barstool to face Damon, ready to get on with that whole fist, meet face business. Damon wore a charming smile, but his eyes were laughing, laughing at Dean and his indignation. Dean turned back to face the bar again. “Asshole,” he muttered, just loud enough for Damon to overhear.

Damon chuckled cruelly in response. “Do you play pool?”

Dean opened his mouth to tell him once more to fuck off, but he bit down on his tongue at the last moment. Pretty boy looked rich. “Sure,” he drawled, grabbed the bottle to pour himself another glass, but instead grabbed the glass as well. With both in hand, he sauntered to the pool table.

It was a weekday evening, the bar was nearly empty. They had the pool table all to themselves and made good use of it.

For all that he was a cocky son of a bitch, Damon played well, Dean surmised after Damon had won the first game.

He had no doubt he was better and threw fifty bucks onto the table as Damon lined up the balls for the next game. “Best two out of three?”

Damon gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders and added his stakes. “Sure.”

Dean leant against the pool table, cue in one hand, glass in the other and watched Damon line up his shot. He let his eyes linger on the slim hips and lean thighs. “So what are you doing here? You don’t look like the country bumpkin type.” 

It was a reasonable question to ask since the bar was mostly frequented by truckers and other people passing through. And these had been Dean’s last fifty bucks, Baby’s fuel tank was nearly empty. Time to up the game.

Damon looked up and his lips curled into a wicked smirk. “I’m on a hunting trip.”

Dean didn’t even try to stifle his answering smirk. “Funny, so am I.”

“You couldn’t handle my game.”

Dean raised his glass to salute Damon’s opening shot. “Nor could you handle mine. You’d run away screaming like a little girl.”

Damon pretended to think about it, tilting his head this way and that. Finally, he shook his head decisively. “Nope. Doesn’t sound like me. Sorry.” 

He stepped aside to let Dean make his shot and as they brushed past another, he leant so close towards him Dean could feel his cool breath against his ear as he spoke. “Bet I could make you scream like a girl, princess,” he drawled. His voice was sultry enough, but Dean had been threatened by too many monsters to miss the menacing undertone.

By the time Dean whirled around, Damon wore that too-charming-to-be-real face again, complete with happy eyes surrounded by friendly little crinkles and nice smile. Dean shook his head, feeling slightly disoriented. He would have thought he had only imagined it, but the hairs at the back of his neck still stood on edge. Dean shook his head again. He was just being paranoid. “Your turn,” he said, voice gruff from annoyance with himself.

For a while, they played with barely any conversation, just the usual bar small talk.

Late into the second game, the subject turned to women.

“It’s not worth it, falling in love.” Dean gave a dismissive snort. “You can have fun without the chick flick bullshit.” He rubbed the back of his neck; he didn’t feel like pouring out his heart to a stranger. Dean couldn’t even say why he was answering such a personal question; it was just hard to deny Damon an answer when he looked deep into your eyes like that.

There was a predatory glint in Damon’s eyes, a self-satisfied tilt to his smirking lips; as if this conversation was going exactly the way he wanted. It just added to Dean’s discomfort. “I was in love once, a long time ago. Her name was Katherine. My brother Stefan and I both loved her.” He laughed. “Women can be cruel, Dean!”

Despite himself, Dean was intrigued. Not by some stranger’s old love story, but by the fact Damon was sharing it with him. Some people told their entire life story to strangers over a pint of beer, but he wouldn’t have pegged Damon for the type. “So who did she choose?”

The amusement vanished from Damon’s face. “She didn’t get to choose,” he said coolly. “Both of us lost her.”

There was an awkward moment of silence. Dean had seen enough hunters with haunted pasts to know Damon didn’t mean she had ditched both of them. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Damon hissed. As he leant over the table to play, Dean realized how tense he was, all taut muscles and barely contained fury. “Apologies won’t bring her back.” He raised his head suddenly, met Dean’s gaze. His eyes were cold and hard. “People like the ones who did that to Katherine, they’ve got to pay.”

“Sure thing,” Dean said easily, yet he wished he had never asked. If he wanted this kind of conversation, he would be drinking with hunters. 

Their play continued in silence, Damon seemed preoccupied with his anger and Dean was content to play and drink in peace. If he spent some time watching Damon as well, there was no harm in looking, was there?

All things considered, it was a comfortable, companionable silence, though Dean occasionally caught Damon watching him with a peculiar glint in his eyes. Dean could have sworn he looked thoughtful, maybe calculating, but before he could be certain he hadn’t imagined it, he was always back to normal. He tried not to be concerned. He could handle whatever a human could throw at him, and if he wasn’t… Killing a monster would be just what he needed.

“That was fun!” Dean said cheerfully and grabbed both fifty dollar bills, waving them around teasingly under Damon’s nose. His grin turned only more sickeningly sweet with Damon’s glower. “Thank you for your kind donation!” He stuffed the money into the back pocket of his jeans and picked up the bottle to pour himself another glass of whiskey. Not a single drop of whiskey came out. Dean gave it a mournful shake and eyed Damon again. “You’re paying.”

Damon flashed him a lascivious grin over his shoulder as he strolled back to the bar, hips rolling provocatively with every step. “Only if you’re gonna make it worth my time…”

Heat flooded Dean’s body, rushing towards his groin as he followed him to the bar. He let his eyes linger on the well-toned backside. “I’m easy, not cheap,” he said with a mock coy smirk. He wasn’t sure if Damon was just messing around, but he decided he wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t.

Wearing a cocky smirk, Damon stepped right in front of him, cornering Dean against the bar. They didn’t quite touch, but they were close enough for their open jackets to brush another. “You know what they say,” he murmured, “dogs who bark don’t bite…”

Dean scowled. He wasn’t going to play the girl for anyone. He stepped forward, crossing the hand’s width separating their chests and pushing farther, forcing Damon to step back if he didn’t want them both to get kicked out of the bar. “Worry about yourself, Salvatore.”

Damon’s eyebrows rose playfully. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Trying to get laid?”

“Alright, you caught me!” Damon raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m all for mixing business and pleasure, sue me.”

Dean grimaced. Business was the last thing he wanted to think about, even if it was only mentioned in jest. Before his mind’s eye, he saw the girl’s head being squashed again. Fuck, Dean needed more booze. Or Damon giving him a spectacular blowjob. Whatever he could get first. “I’m not.” He winked. “Why don’t we forget business and focus on pleasure?” 

He would never learn Damon’s answer, for at the very moment he opened these sinfully smirking lips to respond, Dean’s cell rang.

Swearing, he reached into his jacket to grab it. Dean caught a glance at the screen as he raised it to his ear and swore again. He turned his back to Damon. “Dad.”

“Dean,” John Winchester’s voice came over the line, calm, but grim. “It looks like they’ve got an entire pack.”

Dean’s stomach dropped and twisted in the same motion. Tomorrow night was full moon. “I’m on my way.” He turned back to Damon, not surprised to see he had used the time to order more drinks. He smiled tightly. “I have to leave.”

He had expected Damon to be put out or at the very least accuse him of being a coward again, but he didn’t. He gave a languid shrug. “Of course.”

Relieved that he wouldn’t have to deal with any melodrama, Dean made his way to the door, his mind already mapping the fastest route and taking mental inventory of the Impala’s silver weapons.

Only when he had reached the door did Dean permit himself to throw a glance back at Damon.

“See you around, Dean Winchester,” Damon drawled lazily and raised his glass in mock salute.

 

Dean was a state away by the time he sobered up enough to realize he had never told Damon his last name.

He thought about turning back, hunting him down and demanding answers, but dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had formed. Dad was in deep shit and every minute counted.

By the time the werewolves were dead and their wounds patched up, they had a possible lead on the monster that had killed Mom and then it was just one thing after another.

Damon Salvatore was relegated to a fond memory for quality time with himself in the shower until Dean forgot him altogether.


	3. The Second Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While hunting a different kind of vampire, Dean is reunited with an old friend...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This only took me half a year... I'm so sorry! I had been utterly stuck at this chapter since long before I started posting this story. My thanks go to my reviewer LockersKnivesandSomthingthatStrives, whose comment made me go back to this cursed chapter and lo and behold... sometimes the thousandth time is the charm.

The second time Dean Winchester met Damon Salvatore, Sammy was back, Dad was dead and they were checking out alleged wild animal attacks.

Dean was also royally pissed off.

Three months ago, he had happily believed vampires to be extinct, one less kind of monster to worry about. Now Sam and he were on the third vampire hunt in as many months.

As the bloody cherry on top, their investigations pointed towards this being a different breed of vampire. They had even called Lenore and she had confirmed that this wasn’t the MO of her kind. They couldn’t hypnotize people and Dean would bet the Impala’s new rims on the two survivors they had interviewed being mind-whammied.

“If we run across sparkly vamps next month, I’m quitting this job!” Dean had told Sam before they split up to cover more ground.

At least the precautions were simple, if time-consuming. Dean expected by the time they were done, the smell of vervain would make him retch.

The red-light district they had pinned down as the monster’s favorite hunting ground was a veritable maze of crowded streets filled with loud noises and rowdy, drunken men, and filthy, dimly lit back alleys. There were a thousand places to hide, either in plain sight or in the shadows.

For all that, it didn’t take Dean long to find the first corpse. Whoever the vampire was, they didn’t even seem to care anymore if they attracted attention. Dean’s heart rate sped up, and he tightened his grip on the tranquilizer rifle loaded with vervain. It was barely hidden under his oversized trenchcoat, and it was hard not to feel ridiculous. But this hunt was no laughing matter. Monsters, just like people, were most dangerous when they didn’t have anything left to lose.

Dean dutifully checked on the young man, though one glance at his mauled throat with a conspicuously small puddle of blood told Dean he was far too late. It looked like the boy had run, and tried to fight. The bloodsucker wasn’t even bothering to mind mojo its victims anymore. Or maybe it liked to play with its food?

Two backstreets deeper into the maze, Dean was lured in by the sounds of a scuffle, and a muffled scream. It played with its food, alright.

He arrived just in time to watch a huge brawny bouncer type get smashed into the wall by a smaller man, dark-haired and inhumanely strong.

Dean aimed and fired.

The vampire sidestepped barely and turned his head, snarling, revealing an ugly monster’s face. 

Dean dropped the tranquilizer gun. Faster to reload than a crossbow or not, he’d never liked Sam’s idea anyway. 

“Sorry, buddy, dinner’s been cancelled.” He reached for a stake. The vampire still hadn’t moved.

For all that Gordon had been a nutcase, he was right to attack the leeches when they were at their weakest. Turned out the hunters for this breed met them head on. It felt weird, going against everything he’d painstakingly learned about vampire hunting.

Once the vampire moved it was a flurry of kicks and blows and Dean trying to ram his stake into the vamp’s chest. Keeping him busy while Sam got into position. He really hoped Sam would be ready soon; the little bitch was kicking his ass hard.

The sharp pain at his neck came suddenly, and just as suddenly the vampire reared back, wiping his mouth. It was actually him who took two steps back from Dean this time. When he looked up, his face was human and deceptively pretty.

He laughed mockingly. “Told you I’d see you around, Dean Winchester. Looks like you learned a thing or two since then.”

Dean looked up at the vamp from where he still laid with his ass in a puddle of questionable content.

Somehow it took mere seconds for him to remember, though he’d talked to thousands of people in hundreds of bars since that night. 

“Damon Salvatore.” He wiped some spittle mixed with blood from his own lips, and laughed harshly. “How did the hunting trip go?”

“How did yours go?” Damon asked right back. “Werewolves, wasn’t that what dear old daddy called you away for?”

Dad… Dean’s face tightened. He realized he was still holding on to the stake. “We killed them.”

“You Winchesters know how to throw a party.”

“Sure. How about you…”

Damon looked towards one of the low roofs. Something nasty flickered over his face, before the far-too-friendly smile returned. “Speaking of parties, I’ll have to cut this one short. Vervain and stakes make for a monster hangover.”

Suddenly he was right there in front of Dean again, one hand wrapped around his throat and hauling him up by it. Dean thrust the stake forward, Damon twisted and yelled, there was another yell from Sam somewhere above them…

…and Dean’s world went black with one resounding thud.

 

Dean came to in the passenger seat of the Impala, just as Sam was pulling onto the motel parking lot.

He rubbed his temples, and was unsurprised to find the back of his head tender, hair matted with blood. “Anybody catch the number of that truck?”

Sam gave him his girly I’m Concerned face. “You’re lucky, Dean, the vampire could have just as easily snapped your neck as knock you out.” His knuckles turned white around the steering wheel. “I was right there, but…” He swallowed hard. “If he’d wanted to kill you, there would’ve been nothing I could have done.”

“Way to cheer me up, Sammy.” Dean flashed him a crooked grin. “Let’s just agree: we’re lucky I’m too cute to kill.”

Sammy didn’t look happy, but Dean had to look even worse than he felt, for he actually dropped it.

Later, when Dean didn’t look too pitiful to interrogate anymore, Sam did ask how the vampire knew him. A hunt, Dean said, while you were in Stanford. That shut him up, as he’d known it would, and while he hated the guilt he’d put into Sam’s eyes, it was still the lesser evil to telling him the truth.

How close he’d once come all these years ago to fucking this monster, or letting him fuck him. That he’d spent months jerking off to the thought of him, and that there was a part of him which wanted to do it again.

There were some things Sammy was better off not knowing.

to be continued...


	4. The Third Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're only ever just a phone call away, baby.

“Hey Dean, old buddy!”

The hand not tightening around the cell clung to the steering wheel in a death grip, all he could do not to drive the Impala into a ditch. Fortunately he was on a flat, straight stretch of road or they would be roadkill. “How did you get my number?” Dean hissed into the phone, painfully aware of Sam dozing next to him.

“I had to bang a little old lady and twist her granddaughter’s neck. Or… wait, was it the other way around?”

“What do you want, Damon?”

Damon made an indignant noise in the back of his throat. “Can’t a vamp call his best hunter buddy to ask if the monsters are biting?”

“Well, Damon, are you biting?” Dean snarled.

Damon laughed. “Harsh!”

Dean grit his teeth against the urge to scream. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sam. He was still asleep – or pretending to, he thought grimly. “I’m going to ask you one more time, then I’ll hang up and throw this cell away. What do you want?”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

Dean sighed loudly. He wasn’t in the mood for games. “I’m hanging up now, Damon…” Even as he spoke, he shook his head at himself, annoyed that he kept giving the monster chance after chance to explain himself. It was only because he needed to know how Damon had acquired his number, he told himself, but he felt no better for it.

“My brother’s got himself a girlfriend.” He sounded… Dean wasn’t sure what he sounded like, actually, but distinctly not like Damon. Sappy might fit it, if sappy came with generous amounts of self-pity and indignation. “She’s human, couldn’t hurt a fly and looks like Katherine.”

It took Dean a while to realize Damon expected him to know who Katherine was and a lot longer to remember. It had been years since that conversation in the bar and at the time Damon hadn’t been more than yet another passing bar acquaintance. The only reason Damon had been memorable at all was… Well, knowing what he knew now about Damon, he would rather not think about it. When he finally made the connection, Dean grunted in annoyance. “If you start pouring your little rotting heart out, I’ll…”

“Hang up, I know!” Damon snapped. “Sheesh, and they call me a cold bastard!”

“What do you expect? A bouquet of vervain?”

“How about ‘sorry I tried to kill you, Damon?’”

“I’m just sorry I didn’t get you.”

There was a moment of poignant silence. “Kinky.”

“What do you want, Damon?” Dean ground out between clenched teeth. He eyed the side of the road speculatively. Open the window, a flick of the wrist…

“Maybe I just wanted to make sure you’re alright!” Damon snapped indignantly.

Dean snorted derisively. “Cut the hurt feelings crap; you’re wasting your time.”

“Alright.” All joviality was gone from Damon’s voice. “I just called to remind you that I spared your life twice.”

Dean’s hand gripped the cell phone so hard the cheap plastic casing gave an ominous creak. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

Dean sighed loudly, an angry, frustrated noise. He got the distinct feeling that this whole bizarre conversation was turning in circles. “See. I owe you nothing.” He gave another explosive sigh. “Look, this is pointless!”

“Of course,” Damon agreed readily. “If it was sensible, it wouldn’t be fun.”

“Whatever made you think I give a damn about your pearls of wisdom?”

There was a moment of silence at the other end of the line. “I reckon it’s for the very same reason you’re talking to me at all.”

Dean’s hand ached from the iron grip he had on the cell phone. “I’m done with your crap.” His finger moved to end the call.

“Drive safely, sweetheart.” Damon made a disgustingly wet kissing noise and the line went dead. 

Dean growled with barely restrained anger and punched his fist, still holding the phone, against the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

As soon as Dean had shoved the cell back into his jacket, Sam yawned loudly and stretched.

Dean shot him an unimpressed glare. “Don’t even start!”

Sam snickered. “Girlfriend troubles?”

Dean gave a miserable groan. Fucking Damon.


	5. The Fourth Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's face it, this isn't keeping it professional.

“So you’ve been stalking me,” Dean said as soon as Damon sidled up to the bar and leant against it to his left, nary 48 hours after their phone call.

Damon grimaced. “I prefer to call it ‘taking an interest.’ Stalking makes me sound deranged.”

“So you’ve been stalking me,” Dean repeated.

Damon flashed him that patented thousand megawatt smile of his. His pale blue eyes, in contrast, glittered with cruel challenge. “Whatcha gonna do if I am, hunter?” He twisted his upper body fully around to Dean, propped his left elbow onto the bar and slung his right arm casually around Dean, gripping the counter on his other side. He was so close, intimately close, like a lover. 

Dean held on to his glass with both hands to keep from lashing out. He could sense the lack of body heat, could smell him, feel him, just as he could feel the heat curling in his groin and spreading through his whole body. His heartbeat raced a mile a minute and he knew Damon would hear it. It just quickened Dean’s pulse further. He kept holding on to the glass, but for the life of him, he couldn’t have said whet he would have done if he snapped. He was as likely to run for his weapons as to grab Damon and pull him closer. 

“Wanna play a guessing game?” Damon cooed in the tone of voice other people, not-monster people, reserved for sweet nothings. “What do you reckon, how many necks can I snap before you get me with the vervain?” Cool lips nipped at Dean’s earlobe. “I say twenty, what say you? Winner gets a pony.”

Dean turned his head to face him; their heads were so close their noses would brush if he would just tilt his head a little bit forward. He could pinpoint every lighter or darker fleck in Damon’s eyes. He flashed him a charming boyish smile; Dean could play this game, too. “Does it matter? You’ll be six feet under either way.”

Damon gave a snort of laughter. “True. Let’s play a different game, just you and me.”

It took all of Dean’s willpower to release the glass with his left hand and raise it with the right to his lips, all without the slightest tremble. “So what’ve we been doing the last seven years?”

“Dancing.”

Dean stiffened as a hand slid ever so casually into the back pocket of his jeans. “Woah, woah, woah,” he protested and raised his hands. He tried to take a step back, but Damon’s hold on him didn’t waver. Right, vampire strength. He reached around himself, grabbed Damon’s wrist in an iron grip and wrenched it out of his back pocket, surprised that Damon was letting him even as he did so. “Sorry, dude, necrophilia does nothing for me.”

Damon looked tragically hurt. “I never took you for a bigot, Dean Winchester!” 

Dean snorted, as amused by the theatrics as he was annoyed by them. “Don’t bother,” he said firmly. “I’ve got standards. Low standards, yeah, but fucking monsters? I’m better than that.”

“Cute.” Cruel amusement danced in Damon’s eyes. “What makes you think you get to choose?”

He gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders. Nothing made him think so, actually, but he sure as hell wouldn’t roll over for him. “If you’re going to…,” Dean widened his eyes in mock innocence, “what does your breed call it again? Compel?” He leant forward to cross the tiny distance between them until their noses touched. “If you’re gonna compel me, you’d have done so already.” A tight smile flickered over Dean’s face, it never reached his eyes. “This is about the thrill of the hunt. You won’t cheat yourself out of the fun.”

Damon barked a harsh laugh and abruptly backed away, bringing a full foot of open space between them. “You think you’ve got me all figured out,” he mused.

Dean heaved a little annoyed sigh, more irritated with himself, with the damned disappointment he felt, than with Damon. “There’s nothing to figure out, Damon!” he snapped. “You’re a vampire. A monster. Monsters are all the same. End of the story.”

The vampire made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. He shook his head in mock sadness. “I swear, you hunters are the dullest people in the world!” He snatched Dean’s glass right out of his hand and emptied it in one go. “It’s all ‘revenge will be mine,’ ‘you’re a monster,’ boring!”

“Just say the word and I’ll put you out of your suffering,” Dean offered sweetly. “It won’t hurt a bit.”

“Just say the word and I’ll tear out your throat,” Damon replied just as sweetly. “No lie, I’ll make it hurt like a bitch.”

He didn’t even deign this threat with an answer, just grunted in acknowledgement of it. Dean ordered a beer; he wasn’t going to get smashed in Damon’s company. Been there, done that, not that stupid anymore. 

Only after the beer had arrived and he had taken a sip did he return his attention to Damon. He gazed at him out of the corner of his eye and smiled grimly. “Sooner or later, one of us will leave or the bar will empty.”

“Ah, lemme guess!” Damon exclaimed cheerfully. “Then you’re going to stake my undead ass and you’ll enjoy it.”

Dean shrugged lazily. “That’s the general idea,” he admitted easily. “Except if you keep bitching, I’ll fill you up with vervain and burn you alive instead. Or whatever passes for alive with vampires.”

Damon looked utterly delighted, Dean noted and his guts seemed to twist themselves into a Gordian knot in response. “See!” he crowed and pointed a finger right at Dean’s head. “That’s why I like you! You’ve got a good head on your shoulders!”

Dean grimaced. If being called sensible by Damon Salvatore wasn’t a reason to worry about his state of mind… “Thanks,” he said dryly.

Damon laughed appreciatively, but then he crossed the distance and leant forward with a disturbingly intense expression in his pale blue eyes and… did he just sniff Dean? The hunter shifted uneasily. “You wanna know what’s going to happen now, Deanieboy?” he asked, his voice just a hair’s breadth short of a purr. “I’m going to walk away and there’s nothing you can do to stop me, that’s what’s going to happen. I’m not done playing with you yet.”

“You’re leaving?” Dean asked hopefully. It seemed too easy, too straightforward for this vampire. He ignored the little twang of something which was certainly not disappointment.

Damon pushed himself away from the bar. “If you’re just going to whine about me being a monster… I can get that at home from Stefan.”

Dean’s forehead creased into a frown. It didn’t make sense. 

Damon leant forward again, lips brushing against Dean’s ears. “How much do you wanna bet,” he whispered, “that it’ll nag at you?”

Damon flashed him a bright smile and sauntered away with a jaunty little swing to his steps.

 

True to his words, Dean wasn’t able to stop thinking about it – about him – for weeks.

He just needed to figure out the rules of his game for security reasons, he told himself for the first week.

Then he told himself brooding about his evil plan was as good a distraction as any from your upcoming one-way trip to hell.

In the end, he decided he had been right all along. Damon Salvatore was an asshole. There probably hadn’t been any plan other than making Dean wonder if there was one.


End file.
